


Phantasmagoria in Two

by likeiloveyouforpussies



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:27:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22104052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeiloveyouforpussies/pseuds/likeiloveyouforpussies
Summary: First of all, I must say that I wouldn't change a thing about the movie, not the ending, not a damn thing, and that I agree with everything Céline has done and will do in the future. But my brain is a traitor and somehow thought of this, so here goes.What if (those cursed words) Marianne and Héloïse met again, years after the events of the movie?“If I gave up all of my pride for youAnd only loved you for nowWould you hide my fears and never say‘Tomorrow I must go.’”('Phantasmagoria in Two', Tim Buckley)
Relationships: Marianne/Héloïse
Comments: 69
Kudos: 252





	1. The Blue Parlor

The portrait was fresh from receiving the final touches in the studio, and all Marianne wanted was to get paid and move on. However, Signora Bianchi, her client, was being slow and unintentionally comical in her evaluation of the finished product. The woman’s bulbous figure was all but hunched over the painting, undulating before it like a snake with its charmer, as she switched from an up-close inspection to drawing back a step. Luckily, Marianne was well-versed in dealing with affluent people’s moods and behaviors, and knew that it was better to wait silently.

“I’d love it if you could approve of the place I’ve chosen for it,” said Signora Bianchi, gesturing with the hand that was holding an envelope. Her payment, Marianne guessed. “I don’t want guests sipping their cups and looking up at a double chin.”

There was hardly any trace of a double chin in the portrait, just a hint of a crease over the pearls of her necklace, but the woman had spotted it, sure enough, just like Marianne had picked up on each of her complexes on the first sitting. However, erasing them completely would only make the woman in the portrait unrecognizable, and that wasn’t the goal. Despite having only showed a passing version of those supposed defects, Signora Bianchi was as fearful of the chin in her likeness as of the real thing.

Knowing that it would go right over her head, Marianne disregarded telling her that she was probably thinking about those huge paintings of people riding horses—kings and such—in which, if not hung high enough, the horse would appear chubby. It was an issue of perspective they would not have here, with Signora Bianchi’s portrait. But the woman kept waving the envelope without handing it to her, so Marianne finally relented.

She followed the woman down a series of contiguous rooms, with stiff-faced menservants opening and closing every door for them. They did it so mechanically and efficiently that Signora Bianchi could turn around to talk to her with no fear of crashing.

“I’m entertaining some people in the room where the portrait goes. Now that I think of it, you might recognize a couple of my guests,” belched out Signora Bianchi, together with a cackle.

Before Marianne had time to process what she had said, the last door opened and closed ( _clap-clap_ ), and she was left standing in a blue parlor where everything was gold-rimmed, to the degree that the only moderately large space remaining on the blue wall looked like a stain. One had to imagine that that was the space the Signora had selected.

Signora Bianchi skirted around several armchairs and tiny tables, making things wobble perilously in her wake. No menservants to guard the porcelain here. There were about six women in the room, talking animatedly. Most were indistinguishable from the ornate backdrop where they sat, and Marianne bowed her head respectfully, just as Signora Bianchi was telling everybody not to mind her, that she was just the painter, and that they would see the portrait soon, after it was framed.

That was when the Signora’s previous words really registered in her mind. Marianne raised her head and locked eyes with the woman who was standing up in that precise instant, on the opposite side of the room. Her heart became completely paralyzed as it tried to fold into itself and hide deeper inside her chest. It was the only way she could manage not to make an ass of herself in that proper and opulent Milanese parlor, surrounded by proper and opulent Milanese ladies.

Of course, one of those ladies wasn’t Milanese by birth: the lady in a violet dress, the one with a very serious expression and very wide eyes.

Marianne scrunched the folds of her dress and lowered her head once more, but that did little to erase the impact. The voice she heard, however, was that of the Countess—considerably aged and still very beautiful—asking her in Italian about her well-being in a polite but detached manner. And Marianne did her best to exchange those pleasantries with an even voice.

“This was the friend I told you about back then, remember?” asked the Countess, referring to Signora Bianchi. “It seems you found your way to her anyway without my help.”

“I was lucky; Signora Bianchi found me.” Marianne smiled nervously and raised her eyes again, realizing that the lady in the violet dress was now walking towards her, with no change in her features.

Trying to breathe through her nose to make her agitation less apparent, Marianne simply watched in incredulity as Héloïse became more real with every step, until she was right in front of her. As Héloïse stood still, her skirt stopped rustling, and Marianne felt the entire world go silent with it. No hallucination could be so full-fledged; not even her mind could make up the tiny workings of time in Héloïse’s features. Her face—which had been a mask of impenetrability—now softened, but still seemed to be doing a lot of containment work. Whatever was happening inside, it was going on behind her eyes, which were dazzling. On her part, Marianne had no clue of what her own emotions were doing to her expression.

“Mademoiselle Maissin, such a long time. It’s good to see you again.” said Héloïse in French, softly and disconcertingly.

Never before had she addressed her this formally, nor had Marianne ever heard polite chitchat leave her lips. Everything Héloïse had said during the days they had spent together she had meant, and had been devoid of superfluous decorations. But now—as was abundantly clear—was not then.

“Signora Marchesa,” said Marianne, her voice barely louder than a whisper, yet those two words were like shards of glass in her throat. “Yes, a very long time.”

“Are you still Mademoiselle Maissin?” piped the Countess from her seat a couple of meters away. “Have you not married?”

It was physically painful to tear her eyes off Héloïse in favor of addressing that woman’s concerns about her spinsterhood. “No, Contessa, I’m married to my trade, I suppose. And it’s kind enough to let me keep my name as it is.”

When she glanced back at Héloïse, she saw a tiny smile on her lips.

But Signora Bianchi needed her to look at a vacant spot on the wall. Marianne stood underneath it and examined the paintings around it. The portrait could very well hang there without anybody finding anything about it disturbing – that is, if they could locate it among the other portraits and landscapes spread over the walls (all with flowery, golden frames). It was a very quick and easy conclusion to reach, but Marianne felt she couldn’t move, and didn’t want to, so she just stared at the rectangle of blue wallpaper.

The ladies resumed their chattering, and Marianne heard heels behind her, then a skirt ruffling slightly against hers. Someone stood next to her, as close as the edges of their dresses allowed. As she had done all those years ago, Marianne peered at Héloïse’s profile and then back to what was in front of her. After several seconds, when she did it again, Héloïse was already looking at her, and that brief instance of unguarded emotion almost made her combust.

“I didn’t know who she was,” Marianne whispered, with both of them staring ahead and slightly upwards. “I’m sorry if-”

“Is she happy with her portrait?” asked Héloïse, surprisingly, interrupting her.

Marianne shrugged. “Reasonably so.”

“And it looks like her?”

“Reasonably so,” answered Marianne, and hid a chuckle within a small cough. “She’s a customer; she must be satisfied with the result.”

“Do you find that easy, satisfying them?”

“Customers? Yes.” Marianne stuck a hand inside her pocket to turn it into a fist and tightly grasp the fabric inside.

“I wasn’t as easy, was I?”

“You weren’t a customer.”

“No, I was the merchandise.”

Marianne rubbed her forehead. Her world had dwindled to what vision the corner of her eye could provide, and the blessing of being able to hear Héloïse’s voice. She wasn’t sure she could take this, yet what else could she do? If she budged from that spot, she would have to reassure the Signora, and then she would get paid, and then she would have no reason to be there, to share Héloïse’s slice of the universe, in which she was regarded as little more than an appliance.

Héloïse unfolded her hands, which she’d been holding against her abdomen the whole time, and let them drop to her sides, grazing Marianne’s teal skirt.

“They became fast friends when my daughter was getting her portrait done.” the Countess was explaining, loudly enough for them to hear.

“Did they? That’s so funny!” cried Signora Bianchi, as the other ladies giggled. “Poor things, stranded in that island, aching for life, aching for entertainment! Aching for Milan, yes?”

They were evidently all gawking at them now—Marianne could feel their eyes on the back of her head—as if by looking those women could understand how they became close, a lady and a painter, as if being on an island explained it. Héloïse folded her hands once more, and they turned around in unison, to face the women in the parlor.

The place on the wall was suitable for the portrait, Marianne told the Signora, who squealed in delight and held out her arm, lazily offering her the envelope. Signora Bianchi was not about to go to her, of course, so Marianne had to perform the Herculean task of extracting herself from Héloïse’s immediate presence to walk to the hideous loveseat in which the Signora was lounging.

She pocketed her payment and bade goodbye to the Signora and the Countess. Pausing before Héloïse, she uttered a strangled “Signora Marchesa” before turning towards the door. It opened and closed fast and rudely, and she felt as if someone had shaken her and interrupted a fever dream. Now, standing in a silent and empty room (save for the menservants at the doors), she took a moment to close her eyes and try to breathe normally.

The door behind her opened and closed again ( _clap-clap_ ) and Marianne turned to see that it was Héloïse. She almost didn’t want her to say anything, for this reminded her too much of when she had left her house all those years ago.

“Marianne,” whispered Héloïse, urgently, or so it seemed to Marianne. “Are you going back to Paris?”

Marianne swallowed the tremendous dryness in her throat, stupefied as she was by hearing her name from Héloïse’s lips. And what was more, by noting that she wasn’t using the formal form of address “vous”, but the informal “tu”.

“Not yet.” answered Marianne, barely managing to get those two little words through.

“Not yet what?”

“W-what?”

“Not yet what?” Héloïse repeated, sounding frustrated. “Say my name.”

“Not yet, Héloïse.”

Nodding, Héloïse glanced at her one last time and vanished through the door ( _clap-_ clap) as swiftly as she had appeared, leaving Marianne in a whirlwind of emotion she was unable to contain any longer. She went to the center of the room and placed her hands on a table, resting her entire weight on it. Apparently she was breathing out warm tears as well as air. What in God’s name had just happened?


	2. The Studio

The first signs of morning started filtering into the large but austere room, sounds as well as light. It was just a place to call her studio for however long she stayed in Milan: a big room with a small bed, a fireplace, and little else. The sheet that served as a makeshift curtain started billowing playfully in the breeze, interrupting and splitting the timid sunshine. With the bed pushed against the wall, directly underneath the window, Marianne merely lay there and watched the rippling white cloth above her as if she were submerged in a wavy sea. She had returned to her lodging right after leaving Signora Bianchi’s home, only pausing to purchase a bottle of wine, and then she’d drank it all as a means to get to the next morning as fast as possible.

Inebriated sleep had never been good to her, though; it was never sound and always troubled. She had nodded off several times during the night, and woken up suddenly from short but heated dreams, first startled and then downhearted. But she didn’t want to think about that, nor puzzle out if those were in fact memories or phantasmagoric projections of her mind. It was daytime at last, and so she stepped into her skirt and gathered the items she needed.

She sat on the floor, in front of her bulky travel trunk, and placed a white cloth flat on its surface, and then a square slab of glass on top of it. She poured some paint pigment on the glass and started crushing it into finer particles with the round end of a muller. Then, she added some linseed oil, using the instrument to grind the mix into a paste. When it was no longer crumbly but completely smooth, she scooped it all into a little jar with a palette knife.

Glancing around the room, Marianne chose a section of the wood paneling that covered the walls and grabbed a paintbrush on her way to it. No one would care that she did this, she didn’t think. She dipped her brush in the jar and painted a large, blue rectangle on the wall, a bit higher than her head. To be precise, the color was Prussian blue. After humanity lost the knowledge of how to produce Egyptian blue, this became the first artificially manufactured pigment in modernity, created by accident.

Marianne had recreated the empty square of wallpaper in Signora Bianchi’s parlor. She fixed her eyes on the rectangle and stepped back. She knew she shouldn’t indulge (much less feed) the little monster of nostalgia that lived in the recesses of her brain. But all she wanted was to feel a certain sensation again: that of Héloïse standing next to her. It was so recent, and therefore so real, that it was highly potent in its simplicity.

Her heart started beating faster at once, and Marianne was able to bring back the swish of the skirt, the hand falling to the side and touching her dress, and even the voice. Her mind made a bigger leap, however, and brought back the shock of Héloïse reappearing through the parlor door and saying her name, and demanding that Marianne do the same.

There was a knock on the door, which she heard as a very distant rumbling at first, and wasn’t aware of what it was until they knocked a second time. It was unlikely that it was somebody wishing to commission a portrait, but not impossible. Although it was too early in the morning for lords and ladies, for their servants it was not. Furthermore, word-of-mouth had always worked very well in her favor; going abroad to paint a portrait or two often sparked a few extra orders.

She glanced around for her casaquin and her shoes, couldn’t find them, and so went to answer the door just in her bodice and skirt and stockings. It would be worse, she decided, to lose a potential client than to show an improper appearance.

“Forgive me.” she said, in Italian, and then kept her mouth agape, for Héloïse was standing there, wearing a plum-colored cloak with the hood on and the same violet dress.

“May I come in?” asked Héloïse, clearly more as a way to rouse her to action than asking for real permission.

If her attire was not proper, Marianne reckoned, neither was Héloïse’s presence by herself, without a maidservant of some kind. Moving out of the way to let her through and leaning on the door once she closed it, Marianne watched Héloïse pace towards the center of the large room and untie her cloak. She dropped it on the bed—which was practically the only suitable surface—and approached the blue square on the wall paneling.

The fact that they were alone and she could just gaze at Héloïse without being mindful about it was wondrous to her. She was in awe of Héloïse’s presence, and of the fact that her little paintwork had somehow invoked her. However, Marianne forced herself to stop simply staring and joined Héloïse. They were standing exactly the same way as the day before – side by side, in front of a blue square on the wall. Héloïse simply looked at it, seemingly not even wondering why it was there or what it was for.

“Héloïse,” she whispered, and the name felt ghostly and strange in her throat, like it had the day before. It had existed for so long merely as a thought, as an echo in her skull, that shaping the three sounds into breaths and pushing them out was too much. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say.”

Facing her, Héloïse offered a faint smile. “Have I changed so much?”

“No,” a pause. “I don’t know.”

Not visibly. But there was more to sight than looking. She thought about how Héloïse had dropped every formality the day before, in the few instants they’d been able to speak without being within earshot of the other ladies. Maybe it was a way of conveying that, underneath it all, they knew each other still, they knew who they really were. But, after so long, she wasn’t sure if that was true. She didn’t know what Héloïse wanted.

Marianne had made several attempts through the years to conjure up some feeling or episode she’d remembered and tried to make more permanent and tangible by painting it, not unlike what she had intended with the blue rectangle on the wall. But overall, she was better suited to cope with Héloïse’s absence than with her presence.

“I had accepted I would never see you again.” said Marianne, with a shrug and a grimace.

“Me too.”

Perhaps somebody else would have been petty and taken offense at Marianne’s words, but not Héloïse. She understood. What else could they have done? If one looked beyond their different circumstances, they had undergone the same ordeal, and dealt with it. Which didn’t mean old ghosts couldn’t resurface. In the Underworld, spirits had no influence and couldn’t change, or age, or improve their lot – they remained the same for all eternity. But sometimes, they could come back.

“I don’t know what to do.” Marianne whispered, but then saw that Héloïse was biting her lower lip, and it was such a recognizable little act that it brought tears to her eyes.

“So, you don’t know what to say and you don’t know what to do.”

“Do you?” she retorted, even though she knew that Héloïse hadn’t meant to mock her or dismiss her predicament.

“I know what I want. Do you know what you want?”

They’d barely had time to need each other during their time together, and afterwards, it had been necessary to learn not to. But needing was not the same thing as wanting. Needing stretched its sticky, tentacle-like tendrils towards the future. Wanting, however, had everything to do with the present.

Héloïse stepped closer, and Marianne felt her pupils and the movements of her eyelids like a feather dancing across her skin. She could observe Héloïse forever; moreover, watch Héloïse watch her, for there was no seeing without being seen – a lesson she had learned long ago.

Nodding, Marianne faced Héloïse. The certainty that they could now feel each other’s breaths threatened to make her lose her mind. She closed her eyes so as not to lose the rest of her composure.

“No,” said Héloïse, very gently, which caused her to open her eyes. “You must say it.”

Again, Héloïse was prompting her to speak. The previous day, she had asked her to say her name, and now, a verbal confirmation. Marianne understood. Ghosts and shadows could live and burn bright inside people’s heads and bodies, just as long as they were echoes, memories. Now, those ghosts and shadows were demanding physicality, and a word of agreement would grant them permission to be real.

“Yes.” said Marianne, and immediately noticed that Héloïse’s arms were no longer limp at her sides, but were moving.

She felt Héloïse’s hand on her waist, but there was no need to pull her in. Marianne—or the two of them at the same time—inched closer and collided, effortlessly bridging the gap between myths and spirits with the world of the living. Her fingers moved up Héloïse’s arm and squeezed her shoulder, while Héloïse’s other hand gripped the back of her neck.

They found each other’s lips suddenly, and it was as if somebody blew out a candle inside Marianne’s head. Despite her eyes being closed, she frowned when she pressed her lips against Héloïse’s and felt her mouth open for her. Eagerness was wet, she knew that – they had discovered that long ago. A hunger of sorts had been dormant inside her for a long time, and her body was immensely surprised to have it awakened and satisfied practically at the same time.

There was only the urgency to get closer, as close as possible, pushing each other’s heads to deepen their kisses and leaning into each other’s bodies in a kind of fluid dance. Héloïse was breathing sharply through her nose, and her hands wandered over Marianne’s bodice, but their dresses were like shells that ought to be cracked open and carefully split into parts. It wasn’t that easy to do with hurried hands and their eyes closed, and their eagerness led them to pry and shove aside, rather than untie and slip off.

They stumbled onto the bed, almost falling over when Héloïse bumped against Marianne’s travel trunk, which knocked over the Prussian blue container and sent a blue cloud of pigment into the air. Marianne opened her eyes and became serious at once due to the staggering sight of Héloïse’s desire-stricken eyes and tumbled hair. It wasn’t necessary to recreate how Héloïse used to trace her thumb over her lips, because she was doing it right now, nor did she have to recall how it felt to slide her hand underneath the skirts of Héloïse’s gown and find her skin under all the layers.

Unsuccessfully fumbling with Marianne’s dress from underneath her, Héloïse uttered a frustrated grunt and rolled them over. She was then able to lift Marianne’s skirt, and Marianne waited, with her hand on the inside of Héloïse’s thigh. She waited until Héloïse hand found the same spot on her thigh, waited until they could both reach between each other’s legs at the same time.

Marianne moaned into Héloïse’s mouth when she felt their fingers brush against each other’s lips, and Héloïse whimpered loudly. She wasn’t sure what was making her wetter, touching Héloïse or being touched by her, or listening to the sounds she made, which were muffled by their mouths and their tongues, but their fingers pressed on. They echoed each other’s strokes, as they had done many years ago, when they had explored their bodies and their reactions.

Grabbing a fistful of Marianne’s hair with her free hand, Héloïse pushed her hips into Marianne’s fingers, and Marianne gripped Héloïse’s wrist to indicate that she wanted her inside her as well. For she could feel her own climax already built up and ready, and it erupted as soon as she felt Héloïse starting to tremble on top of her. Héloïse cried out, pressing her face into the curve of her neck as she did, and Marianne dug her fingers into the other woman’s half-naked back as her body seemed to turn itself inside out.

They remained still, in an entranced state. Part of Héloïse’s blonde mane had become loose, and was covering Marianne’s face. Yet Marianne could see minuscule, blue particles dancing around above them and floating down on them. Paint pigment powder. She closed her eyes and kissed Héloïse’s shoulder.


End file.
